Again he stood behind her with his arms circling her body, restraining her and seeming to silence everything. It was as if the air were solidifying around her. She was cornered, but aware that she appeared to be giving consent and afraid of what that might mean and whether he would be rough with her. She felt his face sink into her hair, warmly moving down to the nape of her neck. She heard the panting sound of his breath, its rhythm out of sync with the explosion of her own gasps. He moved his hands to pinch her pelvis between his fingers, controlling her hips.
They swayed together, finding a kind of rhythm in the silent kitchen. For the moment, they were like cuddling newlyweds. Anwar Sadat’s hands slid over her slowly, very slowly, building up the tension gradually, because he knew that rashness would ruin all. His fingers were above her waist, going upward. His palms cupped Nuraeni’s breasts, caressing them. Her breasts, which had aged and suckled children, which had been punished at Komar’s hands, were firmer in the steaming air of the kitchen, under Anwar Sadat’s hot fingers. Youth blossomed again under her flesh.
Anwar Sadat realized that if only he’d gotten his hands on this woman years ago, he would have discovered an almost perfect physique. For months she had been coming to his house, and he had watched her, and he regretted every minute he had delayed approaching her. Throughout those months he had scrutinized her beauty, discerned it beneath the sadness, despite her silence and her morbid preoccupation with housework. Never before had he so much as flirted with a close neighbor, a woman he knew well, the wife of a friend, and above all a woman who could roam about his house like a sister-in-law. But her misty look, and his ability to intuit what she had suffered, made her too compelling for him to back away. He was bewitched by the idea that she longed for the touch of a great lover, something he felt he could slowly provide to this disappointed woman.
He felt he was weighing up her suffering as he held her breasts and listened to the breath catch in her throat. He could understand her condition, yet continued to be awed. She had preserved her body despite everything. He could feel her desire, her breasts seemed to grow firmer, as if to prove his assumption that this woman needed this kind of touch, his touch, to bring her to life.
He would give her the warmth she pined for. His practiced hands, which had fashioned the naturalistic statues in front of his house, which had sloshed paint in shameless imitation of Raden Saleh’s art, and had sent numerous women into raptures under his body, began to move swiftly, fingers lifting before sinking in, drawing patterns on her skin. Sure enough, Nuraeni began to press herself against him, gazing at the ceiling with empty eyes, and breathing heavily through parted lips. Anwar Sadat gripped her more firmly, tightened his cupped hands, and rotated his palms as if opening a jar. Once or twice, all this sent them ramming against each other, as their minds emptied, their legs began to give way, and their bodies were soaked with sweat. Nuraeni’s dress fastened with two buttons at the neck. Anwar Sadat’s hand slowly unbuttoned them, three fingers working as if they had eyes, before his hands slid into her dress and into the bra.
They were rapt, growing wilder with each breath, when a door opened somewhere at the front of the house, bringing their passion to a halt. When Maesa Dewi entered the kitchen, Nuraeni was facing the table holding a knife, with nothing before her to slice, just standing there without the courage to turn around, for Maesa Dewi might see the wide-open collar of her dress revealing her bra. Meanwhile Anwar Sadat was by the teapot, pouring water into a glass before drinking it, also not turning around. Something in his shorts quickly wilted. For a moment, Maesa stared at them both, before dashing into the bathroom and pissing loudly. Anwar Sadat left the kitchen without a word being said.
Basically, had Margio and Mameh been really alert, they would have dated the change in their mother to that day. She glowed that evening, and the look in her eye was something that had been absent since the days of her girlhood. She bathed for hours, put on her prettiest dress, bought four years ago for Lebaran, and played with the kitten by the stove as the rice cooked. She didn’t normally pay attention to pets, but she stroked the cat’s fur, letting her fingers be nibbled, singing softly as if lulling it to sleep. Mameh noticed this, Margio witnessed it, and later Komar stared in disbelief, but they all took it simply for another form of insanity.
Nuraeni mulled over what happened that afternoon. For her there was nothing more beautiful, and she missed Anwar Sadat’s touch very much. She could think of nothing but the memory of that moment and what awaited them, because she sensed it wasn’t over yet; there was more to come.
She walked to Anwar Sadat’s house at ten the next morning, shivering with anticipation. She wore a blouse with a row of five buttons and a flouncy skirt, a gesture of surrender, giving Anwar Sadat easy access. She wanted to repeat what they had done yesterday, and her heart beat fast, but she worried that Maesa Dewi might prove to be a snooping demon. She entered the house, treading softly on the tiles, and headed for the kitchen making a great pretence of innocence. She kept her eyes fixed on the space ahead of her while her mind roved the house, hoping for some sign of his presence. She stood in the middle of the kitchen, the stove on one side, the table and cupboard crammed together on the other. She stood between them, without wanting to touch anything, not the wok nor the pan, not the knife nor the potatoes. There she was, waiting for his hands on her body.
She heard the door open. Nuraeni stood still, and didn’t look. But once again she recognized the dragging of his feet, the man she was waiting for. Upon seeing the helpless woman in the center of his kitchen, Anwar Sadat knew that the afternoon was theirs. She was telling him, without words, to do as he liked, to meld them together.
He took her hand and, with shuffling steps, led her to the bedroom. He closed the door and locked them inside. A truly intimate realm, it was now inaccessible to anyone else, even Maesa Dewi and Kasia.
Anwar Sadat remained stood by the door, taking in Nuraeni in all her bashfulness. Her head was bowed; she didn’t know where to look. She moved backward until she bumped against the edge of the bed and fell onto the mattress. Her hands touched the sheet, which was was lily-white, soft, and thick, with the motif of a hummingbird reapeated in dark brown thread. The foam mattress underneath was solid and yet supple. She wanted to find a warm, eternal sleep, with no wife-beater to bully her and no worries. Anwar Sadat walked toward her. She watched his legs move, and her daydreaming stopped as she looked up at the innocent face of her conqueror.
They exchanged a brief look, and Nuraeni smiled shyly as she glanced at his bulging briefs. It made her freeze again, but Anwar Sadat touched her shoulder, bringing the warmth back to her skin. She sprawled there, legs dangling to the floor, her hair spilling out abundantly, and her breasts shaken by her heavy breathing. Anwar Sadat spread her legs and stood between them before throwing himself down, pressing himself onto her body. The heaviness was thrilling, and stirring, as if saying to her that this could not be delayed any longer.
It was clear from the first that Anwar Sadat would be a patient, attentive lover. He buried his lips in hers, while his hands circled her waist, not letting her escape. Nuraeni was stiff at first, letting their dry lips touch, disorientated by not being able to see him as he lay on top of her. But she could feel the man’s mouth gulping like a fish at the surface of a pond, sending a wet current through her parted lips. He kept teasing her to respond, biting her lower lip and pulling at it slightly, and letting it go before kissing it fully. A response finally came, in tiny movements, until suddenly she was kissing him hard in return.